


Traditions

by idelthoughts



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Costume Kink, F/M, Library Sex, Regency Dances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: For one night, Henry Morgan's past and present meet in the form of a Regency costume ball. Time to revive some old traditions, such as stealing away with the woman of your dreams before she retreats behind the barricades of chaperoned teas and social graces.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).



> Shameless, shameless costume kink. Henry's got a thing for ladies in evening wear, and very little patience.
> 
> Happy holidays, argylepiratewd! Thanks for organizing this and being the amazing fandom friend that you are!

Every inch of the stately home was done up in Regency style, perfectly preserved to a tee.

The people in it achieved their style with mixed success. A smattering of anachronistic jewelry and hair styling, a skirt too full or breeches of the wrong cut here and there, but for the most part, Henry might well have stepped into one of his mother’s annual balls.

He excused himself from the next dance and stood back to lean against the wall and survey the bobbing and curtseying, grinning until his cheeks hurt.

Abigail had found the event in the newspaper by chance, and they’d left little Abe, teething and miserable, with Abigail’s parents while they escaped. One or two visits to some finer clothiers and costumery vendors in London later, they’d been prepared, and arrived by taxi to the locale. Valets were provided to assist in dressing, and Henry settled in with ease to the routine, though Abigail looked somewhat more reluctant. She let herself be whisked away with a chastisement to wait for her. Henry couldn’t help his bemusement at the idea of people studying in school the fashion he’d grown up with, but the result plucked at all his heartstrings and left him centuries lighter, and so he appreciated the cultural society that hosted the events. He might well take the time to do this again in the future—one so rarely had the chance to step into the past.

It was so much like a wedding, waiting to see Abigail revealed in her finery. Even though he was watching, he nearly missed her when she passed, a vision muslin and lace.

Oh, yes. Much like his youth, this. The thrill of the chase, the excitement of a young woman holding his affections, making him foolish and careless…

Abigail craned her neck to look for him in the crowd, looking the wrong direction. She made a little pout of displeasure and he chuckled, and followed as she left the ballroom.

He snuck up behind her in the quiet hall leading to the sitting rooms and caught her by the waist. She squeaked in surprise and he pulled her against him with a laugh, and kissed her neck.

“Hello, darling,” he said. “Been looking for me?”

“Henry, I feel silly,” Abigail said. She turned in his arms and patted down the gown with fussy movements, then rested a hand against her décolletage to smooth the trim of lace. He track the movement of her fingers across her skin and the edge of the cloth, unspeakably moved by the sight.

“You don’t look silly.” His fingers joined hers and he brushed along the line of her collarbone, exposed by the wide dip. “You look beautiful.”

Abigail dressed like this brought back other youthful memories; polite repartee and flirting with a well-placed touch here and there, of sneaking away, of illicit fun had sometimes purely to flout the stuffy rules; of young women and men far less straight-laced than their rigid social roles dictated.

He had no patience to wait for the end of the costume ball. Some traditions were fun to relive, such as stealing time with the young lady of your fancy before she went home to her family, safe behind the gauntlet of chaperoned teas and walks of the estate grounds.

Henry took her hands and pulled her with him as he walked backwards, leading her down the hall. Curious, she followed him, head cocked to the side. They turned the corner, the voices echoing off the dark burnished wood receding and dimming.

“Henry, what are you up to?” she asked.

He winked, released one of her hands and turned to look down the next hall. They were in the quiet east wing of the stately home, the party tinkling off to the west. He tried a door, pleased to find it open. A library, isolated enough, with a lock on the door. He pulled her inside and turned the skeleton key left in the lock.

Abigail pressed into his side and trapped him against the door once it shut. She put a hand around the back of his head and pulled him into a kiss. Clever woman that she was, she’d figured out what he was up to without any help whatsoever.

“These deserve far more appreciation than mere observation, my love.” He kissed the exposed curve of her breasts, and nuzzled a kiss into her cleavage.

“You naughty man,” she chastised, and then laughed when he growled an agreement into her bosom.

He caught her in a kiss, buzzing with the giddy thrill of it all.

“I can’t wait,” he said, walking her back towards the couch near the fireplace as he kissed her neck, delighted by the shiver of response. “I want you, Abigail.”

“What, here?” He raised his head to meet her scandalized expression.

“Yes, here. Problem?”

“This dress, for one. This ridiculous hair style, for another.”

“Darling, history has many solutions for these occasions.”

“Which you’ve had time to practice and perfect, no doubt,” she returned, unable to contain her smile.

“And which I’d be remiss to not preserve and pass on to future generations. Come here.”

He pulled her to the couch and sat, positioning her in front of him. He reached for the hem of her dress and, layer at a time, began to lift it onto his knees. She watched, her breath heavy, until his hands were beneath, his legs obscured by the draping of gold fabric. He looked up at her as his hands brushed her knees, then crept higher.

“Very modern, Abigail,” he said as he encountered garters, stockings, and the lacy underthings she preferred.

“The nineteenth century can keep their bloomers, thank you,” she said primly, but light and airy as his fingers brushed the insides of her thighs.

“Ladies then wore much less beneath these frocks,” he said. He unclipped each garter, then slid his fingers under the garter belt to hook her underwear and drag it down slowly to her knees until they fell to the floor. He travelled back up her legs. “Open in the middle,” he drew a soft line over her and she sighed, “or nothing at all.”

“How very risqué.”

“A different time.” He moved back down to reach for her underwear, and she obliged him by placing her hands on his shoulders and lifting each foot to let him take them from her. He tucked them into his inner pocket. Gold lace, to match the dress. She’d known he’d never resist her, dressed like this.

“And what happens now?” she asked. She cupped his cheeks, stroking his cheekbones. She was enjoying the game.

Not nearly as much as he was, however. Under the cover of the cloth he plucked at the buttons on the flap of his breeches, withdrawing his erection, then hooked a hand behind her knee and coaxed her toward him onto the couch, first one leg, then the other, until she straddled his lap. She came willingly, the billowing fabric of her skirts like a cloud around them, the rustle of fabric loud. He kept his hands beneath, stroking her legs, her naked round bottom, and then pulled her close.

The moment she felt the touch of his erection against her she sucked in a deep breath, then moved so he slid across her, slick and wet.

He remembered this; the haste, sneaking off into the garden, the careful management of position and movement to keep tidy lacing and careful coiffure in place. The dancing and conversation was their foreplay, the forbidden nature of such liaisons excitement to drive them, and there was never any time to waste. Now, like then, they were both ready. She took his direction and settled onto him slowly until she was fully seated on him.

He held her in place, breathing slowly and savouring the potential, snug inside her and eager, waiting. His head dropped forward to her bosom, his cheek against her soft skin and the line of her bodice. She might well have been sitting on his lap if anyone saw them. Their intimacy was hidden, a flirtation carried to its peak in the midst of their buttoned down, rigid roles. No doubt his slack-jawed desire would have given the game away in an instant, but he could have lied, played the sheepish knave coaxing a woman to unladylike but innocent behaviour, even as he was buried inside her, having her with the eyes of polite society on him.

“Henry.”

Her fingers massaged into his hair, keeping him close to her chest. She rocked a little and he groaned into her breasts. So much potential, here in this stolen moment with only the two of them in the know.

“So this is the way, hm?”

“Yes.” He moved his head to look up into her unfocused eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. “Or over a convenient desk. You on your back, or on your front, as you please, me standing. Or me on my knees under your skirts, until you are satisfied.”

His hands massaged her rear as he spoke, spinning out the old and forgotten fantasies of a long-ago life, following the slow roll of her hips as she moved up and down with greater range with the unconscious, restless urging of his hands. The rustle of muslin and lace and crinoline was an old sense memory, the soft pant of Abigail’s breath a current one, and Henry was too close by half. His fingers convulsed, digging into her soft flesh, and he could feel the flex of her muscles. She clenched around him. He was nearly writhing with the desire to bounce her hard and fast on him.

Oh, _oh_ —too close, much too close, not yet, he didn’t want this to be over so quickly. He pulled her down hard once and held her there, eyes shut in concentration.

“Don’t stop, Henry.” She lifted her hips again, then down.

He clenched his teeth around the high-pitched whimper she pulled out of him, grasping for control of his body with all his strength as he shuddered. He was like an inexperienced youth all over again. Bless the patient ladies who’d been the recipients of his fumbling affections back in those naive and simple days.

“You’re not… _oh_ —” His hands clenched hard. He had to step back from the looming edge. “Hardly gentlemanly of me.”

“Is this what gentlemen do?” she whispered into his ear. “Have young ladies in the library while the party goes on in the next room?”

Yes; yes, whisked away with none the wiser, unashamedly taking the forbidden. He couldn’t speak, his throat closed as he held his breath and willed himself to hold back.

Abigail pushed him back into the couch with impish haste. She braced her arms on his chest, pressing against the heavy wool lapels of his jacket. Her hips moved in perfect time, back and forth, shifting the sea of fabric around them with the shushing rhythm of waves. Her skin was flushed from her cheeks down along her neck and collarbone, and the sparkling clips in her elaborate upswept hair twinkled in the low light with her movement. She was perfectly put together, everything hidden and secret between them. Henry tried to hold his eyes open, but the feel of her, the hot slide, the crush of her pressing him down, heavy against his chest until the thick wool lapels of his coat and gold buttons digging into his flesh, pushed him closer and closer.

In this position, he could do nothing. He was trapped but for a small rock up to meet her each time. His hands urged her faster, fingers tight and dimpling her skin, but he was so close, he was so—

His hips surged up and he gasped, ragged and loud, nearly lifting off the couch. She moved without mercy as he pulsed inside her and he muffled a cry behind lips clamped shut. He was rigid, twitching inside her, shivering with the intensity of it, helpless as she rode him, subsiding only when he relaxed with a explosive exhale and boneless release.

When he finally managed to blink his eyes open Abigail smiled at him with fond amusement. Henry chuckled, sheepish.

“I’ll have to keep this ridiculous dress, I think,” Abigail said. She shifted against him and her eyelids fluttered. She rocked again once, then rotated her hips, making him groan in echoes of pleasure, but he was no longer hard inside her. The grind against his pelvic bone made her hum, pleased, it wasn’t the satisfaction she was looking for.

Henry pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and worked his way beneath her skirts, coaxing her up and trapping the gush of fluid that dripped from her. Tidy, neatly done, everything hidden away as a gentle series of wipes cleaned them both up. She closed her eyes through the attention, lips parted. Her sigh of disappointment when he stopped to tuck away the handkerchief and button his trousers was only a breath, but he smiled at her.

“It’s been a while, but I believe I remember how this goes,” he said with a wink. He wasn’t a completely selfish cad.

Taking her by the hips her urged her back to stand in front of him. He slid forward until he sat on the ground, back leaned against the seat of the couch, legs stretched out in front of him between her legs. He was nearly lost in the sea of her gown, her feet to either side of his thighs, and she looked down at him in bemusement. He gathered up the fabric again until it was above her knees, and he kissed her thigh.

“Knees on the couch, either side of me. Steady yourself on the back.” He lifted the skirt to keep her from kneeling on it as she followed his direction.

She let him guide her into position, and it put her with her legs around him, pressing the crux of her to his face. He kissed her there and she gasped, and with a pleased noise he let the skirt fall over him, trapping him in with the taste and scent of her, hot and wet and beautiful.

A muffled gasp and squeak of surprised enjoyment when he licked into her made it through the skirts, but it was soon lost in the shuffle of fabric as her hips shifted. It pressed his head back and strained his neck, but he didn’t care. He was transported, a lad again, lost in his shameless pursuits and indiscretions.

He buried his face in her, near suffocating in her, moving and sucking and licking in rhythmic time, until the sound of her whimpers pierced through the stifling, rushing sound of her skirts. Her thighs were tense and shaking where they pressed to the sides of his head, and he kept up the relentless pace, wanting to bring her the same quick, intense rush she’d given him.

There it was—her hand on the back of his head through the fabric, pressing him closer. She moaned, grinding against his face, and he laughed deep in his chest with the sheer joy of feeling her body react to him like this. He kept at it, gentler, her hips twitching in reaction with each tiny lap of his tongue, until it was only tiny, soft motions.

Eventually he succumbed to the need for fresh air and to the stiffness in his neck from the awkward position, and moved his mouth away from her with a last gentle kiss.

She shifted off him, and with a rush of cool air her skirts pulled away and he was exposed to the library; the flicker of candles, the heavy dark wood, the books, the faint sounds of music and voices and dancing—any moment, a friend might knock at the door with a warning that they’d been away too long, that they would be missed and the gossips’ tongues would be set to wagging. Mother and Father down the hall, busy weaving their social webs, his friends and siblings trying to whisk their own beaus away for what romance they could steal.

Abigail collapsed back to recline on the couch with a heaving chest and flaming cheeks, the picture of a fainting damsel. He shifted to his side and leaned an elbow on the couch seat to prop up his head, and she gave him a dazed smile. He pulled his much abused handkerchief out again to find a clean corner and wiped his face, hardly able to stop grinning as he did so. For one moment, it was real; his present and his past blended, and he felt whole.

Abigail scoffed at his punch-drunk giddiness, then leaned forward to kiss him. She lingered before she pulled back a space.

“You smell like sex, Henry. You’ll never get cleaned up before someone sees you.”

“Ah, but that’s half the fun,” he said loftily. “Badge of honour to wear proudly, while the other gentlemen call me a lucky bastard and wish they were half so sly as to pull it off with the object of their affections.”

She swatted him on the shoulder, playfully scandalized.

“That’s positively primitive,” she chided with a laugh. “Henry Morgan, you are a filthy scoundrel, and I love you.”

He gave her a mock salute with two fingers to his forehead, and she kissed him again, giggling.

Yes, they would have to visit this event next year—but he hoped to see more of that dress in the meantime.


End file.
